


Sugar Honey Iced Tea

by silhouette (thiefless)



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Adult Peter Parker, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, First Time, Identity Porn, Identity Reveal, Light Dom/sub, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Sugar Daddy Tony Stark, 中文翻译 | Translation in Chinese
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:34:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24082915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thiefless/pseuds/silhouette
Summary: Just business. That's all this was. Just a simple business transaction. The kid needed money, Tony wanted companionship – with a generous sprinkling of orgasms on both sides. All they had to do wasnotfall in love with each other. How hard could it be?Or: the one in which Iron Man becomes Spider-Man's sugar daddy.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 82
Kudos: 649





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [【授翻】Sugar Honey Iced Tea|糖蜜冰茶](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25508368) by [AriaArioso](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AriaArioso/pseuds/AriaArioso)



> (Man, I'm such trash for writing this. Seriously, don't look at me.) I know, there have been a lot of amazing fics already with this trope, but this idea came to me and forced me to write it. I have no idea how sugar babying works in real life, either – good thing for artistic license. 
> 
> This is not meant to accurately reflect real life, and this fic is not endorsing anything like this in real life. This is just pure fiction.

Tony Stark looked like the sort of man who could, through undeniably sexy scientific methods, disprove the proverb, _money doesn't grow on trees_. Like, seriously. When Peter was still in high school, there was an urban myth circulating that if you grab a thesaurus, and search up the antonym for the idiomatic expression, _I'm not made of money_ , then Tony Stark shall appear and offer you your weight in hundred-dollar bills. 

Not that Peter tried that, of course. What a preposterous notion. 

But, well – between the higher calibre of supervillains demanding a higher calibre of cool gadgets to stop them, and the piles upon piles of student loans he'd been racking up while at Empire State – Peter could do with some trees. Even just picking the cherries off Tony's metaphorical garden would do. (That sounded better in his head.)

Besides, Tony Stark was literally _made of money_ – it was practically hardwired into his genetic makeover. The man oozed a hot dollar; bled gold. There was a reason blood and pennies tasted the same, and it wasn't just the haemoglobin (okay, it kinda was; Peter was a science major, he couldn't refute basic facts). 

Not that Peter had entirely prepared for this meeting. Oh, no. Becoming a bona fide sugar baby wasn't meant to be serious application – not initially anyway. Just a silly joke between friends. Peter's profile on the website was literally a gag. Ned and MJ helped design it, singing his praises to any old men or women who chanced upon him. Peter didn't even know what it said, that's how uninvolved he was. 

Until Tony motherfucking Stark fell for the bait – hook, line and sinker. 

So that was the story of how Peter Parker, a random nobody from Queens wearing hand-me-downs from a thrift store, ended up being dined at arguably the fanciest restaurant in New York with one of the richest men on the planet. 

Yeah, he was way out of his depth here. Nothing in Peter's life could have prepared him for this eventuality. 

The man in question cut through Peter's rather hysterical stream of consciousness with a slightly concerned: “You okay, kid?”

Oops. Peter was doing that _thing_ again – the one where he stopped breathing when trying to process. He'd been working on that, but. Cut a guy some slack. It wasn't every day you were eating dinner in a ludicrously expensive steakhouse with the world's finest bachelor. 

Peter tried to clear his dry throat, and when that didn't work, he took a few sips of the champagne he wasn't of legal age to drink. 

“I’m good, thanks, sir,” Peter babbled, smile worming its way onto his face. 

Tony remained unconvinced, but nonetheless did not pry further. He set the menu down, flagged down a circulating waiter, asking Peter what he was going to order.

“I, um.” Peter didn't even know what half of them _meant_. They were literally written in a different language, and Peter could barely speak coherent English right now. Plus, there were no prices listed next to the food, and even though Tony was a multi-billionaire, that little fact made Peter sick. “I'll have whatever you're having, please?”

A wicked smile danced along the seam of Tony's mouth. “Smart choice.”

They had the eight-ounce A5 (whatever the hell that meant – Peter had never felt so working-class) wagyu filet. 

_Holy fuck_ , Peter thought as soon as he had a mouthful. 

“Like it?” Tony's eyes were dark. 

Peter could only nod in response, too enthusiastic, eagerly ready for another bite. 

After a few seconds of comfortable silence, Tony cleared his throat, setting his cutlery down. “Well, kid. There's no point beating about the bush. What kind of transaction are we talking about here?”

Peter's hand froze, fork poised in delicate precision, hovering a scant few millimetres from the food. “Um. I think it's pretty... obvious,” he finished awkwardly. He set his fork down, following suit.

Tony snorted. “Yeah, I got that much. You want me to be your sugar daddy,” and Peter's whole body turned beet red at the casual nonchalance in Tony's voice – “but we kinda need to set out the terms and conditions of this arrangement.”

His brain short-circuited, unwilling to comply. “Nobody reads the terms and conditions anymore, sir.”

“Little shit,” said Tony, but the effect was lessened by the upward quirk of his lips. “Nevertheless, this is a conversation we need to have before we take things further.” 

“What do you–” Peter paused. Took a few sips of champagne. Rephrased: “What do people normally do?”

“This may come as a bit of a shock, kid, but I don't make a habit of soliciting sex for money.” Tony waved a nondescript hand. “This whole thing isn't really my area.”

That actually made Peter feel a bit better. “We're in this together then?”

“Unless you'd be up for threesomes.”

Peter was very glad he didn't have anything in his mouth else it would've been ejected at Tony's cavalier suggestion. No matter what the common mugger said, speechlessness was not a good look on him. 

“Or not.” Tony shrugged. “Have to admit, I kind of like the idea of being your only.” He flashed an award-winning smile. “Call me possessive.”

 _Possessive_ , Peter's mind giddily parroted, Tony's mouth playing on replay, until semantic satiation rendered the meaning null and void. Peter liked the idea of being possessed far, far more than he should have. 

No. Stop it, Peter. He could ruminate on his kink a little later – _in private_. Definitely not in front of his 'date'.

Time to take control of this conversation. Yeah. Control. Pretend he was back in the suit, kicking some New York ass. 

“What kind of, uh, arrangement are you thinking of, Mr. Stark?” Peter asked, because he had absolutely nothing to base his expectations on. 

Tony took a few sips of water – water, not wine, some part of Peter's brain catalogued. “That rather depends on you. I'm under the impression that there is a certain 'allowance' after every date, although that sounds a bit too infantilising for my tastes. Or you could send me a text or a call if you need anything or want anything from me. I can pay for your college, save you all that student loan debt as well. Money's not really an issue. But – it's up to you. Whatever you want. I'm not fussy.”

Whatever Peter wanted. In exchange for sex; that part needed no further introduction. 

Weirdly, that was also the part Peter was looking forward to the most. 

“Option two sounds good. And, uh, it would be nice not to have to worry about college.”

The glint of teeth gleamed like a dagger in the dim lighting. “Consider it done.”

The rest of the evening continued without a hitch, the world hazy and alcohol-tinged. Conversation with Tony, while a little awkward and stilted – more so on Peter's part as he struggled to find his footing in their budding relationship – was enjoyable. Disappointment settled like a blanket over Peter as their date drew to a close. Despite only just meeting Tony, all Peter wanted was to keep him. 

_Don't get attached, Peter. Whatever you do._

Yeah – probably too late.

While Peter was busy losing an argument against his imaginary self, Tony paid for the dinner, holding out his hand for Peter to stand. 

Tony sniffed. “I'm told chivalry is an advantageous quality,” he said when Peter took a beat too long to take Tony's proffered hand. 

He did. 

Tony had one of his self-driving cars on standby, and quickly bundled Peter into the back after Peter gave him the address, before following after him. Okay, yes, Peter was geeking out at the cool technology, already wondering whether Tony could be tempted into deconstructing and reassembling the car and lecture Peter about how it worked. 

The restaurant wasn't too far away from his dorm, and it took little time at all before they arrived at his destination. 

“Remember,” said Tony as Peter departed, seriousness adoring his handsome features. “You can back out at any time. I mean it, kid. The ball's in your court, always.”

He waited for Peter's assent, and then took off like a genie in a lamp, disappearing before Peter's naked eye.

Peter took a deep breath. Held out. Then calmly composed himself enough to get back to his room.

The sudden adrenaline crash wiped his system, leaving him in dire need for a reboot, and he muddled back to his room, starfishing on the bed without even taking off his clothes.

What the hell was he doing?

* * *

_I want you to be happy_ , Pepper pleaded.

 _Get back in the dating business,_ Rhodey ordered.

 _It'll be fun_ , Happy concurred.

The blame rested solely on those three imbeciles. Yes, Tony wanted that written down on paper, please and thank you – quick as you like. It was entirely their fault Tony even entertained the notion of 'dating', and he was damn well holding them accountable for what exactly that 'dating' entailed.

Because, sure, Tony could have gone the traditional route – roses and chocolates and the whole conventional shebang. Chivalrous, as Steve would say. But that wasn't really Tony's style. 

And, please, conventional? What about Tony Stark said plain vanilla? Need he remind them that he fought armed terrorists in nothing but a can, spent the past decade masquerading as an Avenger on the side, and let his 'bodyguard' take the fall while Tony still made it home in time for tea, with absolutely none the wiser to Tony's grand deceit.

(Actually, probably best he did not do that, considering the whole 'secret identity' thing. Might get a bit messy otherwise.)

Wait. Pause. He was getting off on a bit of a tangent, here. He had a tendency to do that; time to reel it back in. 

So. Yes. Genius billionaire playboy philanthropist, and now awarded the title sugar daddy. The respectable adult portion of his brain – the one that liked to flare up at increasingly inconvenient times as revenge for Tony having silenced it his whole life – was understandably appalled at his actions, and to be honest Tony kinda was too. A forty-eight-year-old secret-superhero dating an eighteen-year-old college freshman wasn't _really_ the most upstanding thing Tony'd ever done. Arguably even worse than being a playboy, depending on who you asked. 

But, alas, Tony had a reputation to maintain. Nobody would ever accuse him of secretly posing as Iron Man, now would they? 

Hence: Peter Parker. The kid nearly thirty years Tony's junior, the kid Tony was going to enjoy wining and dining, the kid Tony was going to enjoy _fucking_. It was a good set-up. Ample. More than ample – perfect. It was a perfect set-up. Who said sex and money couldn't go together? 

Date number two was a lunchtime endeavour, mainly because Tony wanted to visualise every aspect of how Peter looked against the backdrop of the sun (conclusion: _radiant_.) They were discussing Peter's chemistry homework, because Tony was a certified genius, when the kid abruptly changed topic. 

“You don't, um.” Peter bit his lip, shy. “You don't have any other... people like me, do you?” he breathed. 

Tony quirked a brow at the non sequitur, reminded of their introductory conversation. _Possessive_. “You're a handful enough as it is, kid. Why, you have any other old men on the side?”

Peter shook his head, lips curving into a smile so delicate one touch would cause it to fragment. “No.”

Now, it was at this point that Tony envisioned he could hear F.R.I.D.AY.'s voice blaring down his eardrum like a klaxon, warning, saying: _Boss, there is a 3,000% chance this will end in catastrophic failure._

What could he say? Tony loved walking the tightrope. Sign him the fuck up.

* * *

Their third date – a traditional candlelit dinner, this time – followed rather like their previous two, minus the initial awkwardness and reservation. Tony truly had no filter, and Peter loved it. And he'd gotten used to the constant staring, and the odd whispered comment from the nearby patrons and wait-staff. Although, sometimes, he wished his hearing didn't make him quite so omniscient. Their age difference drew a lot of raised eyebrows as well. 

Plus: Peter was eating out with a renowned billionaire playboy, so. There was that to contend with. 

“Sweet tooth?” Tony teased as Peter ordered the sweetest of desserts, his eyes just this side of dark, lapping up every inch of Peter's face like he was some lucrative enterprise in his own right. 

Peter just smiled, as sweet as proverbial pie. “I'm just preparing for this evening, sir.” See, look at Peter, being all grown up. He could do this. He had it in the bag. 

Sex was on the cards tonight. Tony had not put any pressure on Peter – none, whatsoever. In fact, he seemed perfectly content to bask in the pleasure of Peter's company. 

But Peter was impatient. His heart fluttered every time he got within reach of him, his palms tingled, his breathing stuttered. It was time. Time to cash his v-card into New York's resident genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. More than that: Peter trusted Tony. Tony's bodyguard was literally _Iron Man_ – Peter's childhood hero Iron Man. So, there had to be something trustworthy about Tony that would prompt Iron Man's fierce loyalty to him. 

And Peter trusted Iron Man. Well, Spider-Man trusted Iron Man, and Peter _was_ Spider-Man. 

Dual identities were just so damn confusing. 

Choking down his precautionary sense of embarrassment, Peter merrily blurted out to his sugar daddy, “For the record, Iron Man was my sexual awakening.”

Just then, Tony was overtaken by a brief but powerful coughing fit, as though Peter's revelation had preceded some kind of allergic reaction on Tony's part. Complete coincidence.

“Iron Man, huh, kid?” Tony repeated once he had reclaimed autonomy over his vocal processes. 

Peter nodded, his own throat seizing in premature humiliation. (Sadly, his heightened senses failed to gift him the power of knowing when the fuck he was about to say something utterly mortifying. Figured.)

“Looks like I might have to fight my bodyguard for your attention.” Mischief twinkled in Tony's molten brown eyes. “Shall I tell him that you jacked off to the Iron Man posters on your wall?”

Not for the first time in the past five minutes, embarrassment ambushed Peter, and he dropped his eyes to the ground, appearing for all the world appropriately abashed. 

“Ah! You did,” Tony mused, audible shit-eating grin unfairly liquefying Peter's intestines. “Interesting.”

“Come on, now, sir,” Peter said, doing his best deflection – spoiler alert: it needed work. “I showed you mine. Time for you to reciprocate.”

Tony shrugged and then, happy as could fucking be, said, “If you must know, I've always been quite partial to Spider-Man myself.”

Oh.

Well, well, well. This was certainly shaping up to be an _interesting_ development. 

“You're not the only superhero fanatic, kid.”

No. It would seem not. 

Peter smothered his grin into his drink. 

“You ready to go, kid?” Tony asked, reading Peter's obvious agreement. He flagged down a rotating waiter, and got the cheque, Peter trailing after him like a lovesick puppy.

Tony had one of his self-driving cars pick them up, and take them back to one of his more ‘flashier’ apartments. 

( _Big dick energy_ , Peter's childish mind cackled. Either way, he couldn't wait to find out.)

Peter hesitated when they entered Tony's lavish apartment, his previous nervousness at disappointing Tony getting the better of him. “You know that I've never...” he stopped. “You know that I'm, like, wildly inexperienced, right? Like, I have zero experience on this matter.”

Tony shrugged, unperturbed, eyes twinkling as he retorted, “So? I'm a filthy whore. I have a long and proud documented reign that will back me up.” His expression sobered. “If it makes you feel any better, I've never slept with a virgin before, so this'll kinda be like my first time, too. Remember: we can stop at any time,” he added, stern, with as much authority as he could muster. “I mean it, kid. Tell me if I cross a line.”

“I promise, sir,” Peter said breathlessly, already sounding utterly wrecked. 

With a big, fat Tony Stark seal of approval, a red-faced and already sounding fucked out Peter then unceremoniously put himself on his knees, and offered to lube up Tony's cock with his own spit – a suggestion his sugar daddy was very fond of, as it turned out. 

Inexperience dominated his actions. He had a hard time finding an appropriate pace, until Tony tangled his hands in his hair and gently guided him. 

“That's enough, kid,” Tony grunted, easing Peter off his cock. “You keep going like that, I'm not gonna make it to the grand finale.”

Peter glowed at the praise. 

They made short work of their clothes after that. Tony refused to divulge himself of his dress shirt, which Peter did think was a bit odd, but was a little too preoccupied to analyse. Tony was a gentlemen, and prepped Peter so beautifully. Peter fell apart three times just from Tony's tongue and fingers, and he could feel Tony's wicked grin press against his hole, before he raised himself back up on his heels. 

Dilated. Tony's pupils were dilated – dilated _hard_. 

“You ready, kid?” Tony asked, rough. That low rumble of his was doing some wonderful things to Peter's insides as Tony rolled on a condom. 

“Please.”

Whole. That's how he felt – from the second Tony pushed in right to when he bottomed out. Tony was attentive, thoughtful, and he checked in with Peter. 

When Tony started stimulating his prostate, though; that was when the proverbial fireworks happened. 

Peter opened his mouth to spout out a pitiful cry of _Tony_ , or maybe even the customary, time-honoured _daddy_ – but what came out instead was an agonised, “Oh, Mr. Stark.”

Tony's hips stuttered, hands jerking where they gripped Peter's waist, an animalistic snarl reverberating in his throat. 

Peter came, and Tony smothered his mouth with his own. Tony didn't hold out much longer, tucking his face into Peter's shoulder and muffling his own cries of ecstasy there. 

They lay like that for a while. Sleep blanketed Peter, enshrouding him in darkness, Tony’s heartbeat pounding in his ears. 

When Peter woke up in the morning, he was alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys. So sorry that this has taken me so long to get out. Life just got in the way.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! :)

Tony Stark was a man with a lot o' layers – rather like Shrek's metaphorical onion, come to think about it – and he kept them firmly under lock and key. Most of their nightly escapades took place in exorbitant hotel rooms, or fancy mini-breaks they managed to squeeze around their respective schedules. Occasionally, Peter chanced sneaking Tony into his college dorm, although that would mean forfeiting a night of crazy, wild sex for something a little more subdued thanks to the paper-thin walls. 

The only night Peter stayed over at Tony's place (one of many, presumably) was the night he took Peter's virginity. 

Whatever. It was all good. All perfectly fine. No feelings involved – which was good. This was just business. Peter could do professional in his sleep. 

_Anyway_. Moving swiftly on. 

For his part, Tony was very generous, so gratuitous in the face of everything Peter gave him, and responded handsomely in kind. 

More often than not, Peter just asked for money. Going through life with an aunt and uncle – and later just an aunt – living pay check to pay check had taught him not to put too much stock in material objects. Not when the option of straight cash was there. A few hundred-dollar bills here, a couple thousand dollar checks there. It made him feel guilty enough as it was, although he always consoled himself with the knowledge that, _hey, it's for Spider-Man._ Yeah, Peter could have just asked Tony for the equipment outright, but that would lead to some pretty intense questions (Tony Stark just had _ways_ , man) that he really did not fancy answering at this current point in time. 

Besides, Peter never failed to uphold his end of the bargain. In fact – and Peter would never dare admit this in the cold hard light of day – it was often his favourite part of the whole transaction. (Because, yes; sadly, Peter was just _that_ desperate.)

Peter commodified himself at Tony's pleasure, basking in Tony's delight and revelling at every sacred utterance of praise that dripped like honey from the man's lips. At times, he felt rather like a patented product, especially with the hickies and bruises that more often than not painted Peter's skin. 

_Copyright Tony Stark_ , Peter mused, and then instantly groaned aloud at the white-hot heat that melted the flesh off his bones at the thought. Fuck. Being objectified by Earth's most profitable businessman should not be as hot as it was. 

MJ would be very disappointed. Ned would probably cringe, too. Best not tell them in any case. 

One of the more memorable of encounters saw Tony stick his tie into Peter's mouth, gagging Peter and making him drool onto the silky fabric, as Tony wrung beautiful oscillations of pleasure out of him before he finally took what was rightfully his. 

But this took the cake. Sweet, saccharine torture – Peter, squirming in his sugar daddy's lap, failing at doing the one task that was required of him, but too far fucking gone to care. Instead, Peter chased his own pleasure, rutting against the firm muscle of Tony's powerful abdomen hidden beneath his shirt.

Tony _tsked_ , disapproving. “This is supposed to be about my pleasure. After everything I've done for you...”

Peter whimpered, hips getting bolder as they sought friction.

Finally, Tony took pity on him. “Don't say I never give you anything,” he said, chastising, and took Peter's weeping length in his calloused palm, pumping once, twice, thrice – scoring a hat-trick, attaboy – until Peter was sobbing, gasping as pleasure washed over him, and he crested and made a mess of Tony's hand and shirt-clad chest.

Once his mind-blowing orgasm receded just enough for his higher brain functions to kick in, Peter sank to his knees. 

Tony hummed appreciatively. “Good boy,” he said, and every part of Peter flushed at the praise. His eyes hungrily tracked the slow journey of Tony's fingers as they nimbly unbuckled his belt, dipping below the waistband to withdraw Tony's hardening cock. 

Tony rubbed his thumb, wet from Peter's spit, over the head, and Peter watched, entranced, as precome spurted from the teasing pressure. “Now say thank you.”

Peter would so hate to disappoint.

* * *

Exactly two months after Tony started this questionably unorthodox relations with one Mr. Parker, the kid fell sick. Not seriously, but enough so that their plans were disrupted.

(As far as Tony was concerned, that was okay. Just getting to see Peter was a blessing– and, _gah_ , who the hell was he now? Some lovesick, supercilious fool? The worst part was, he couldn't find it within himself to give a damn.)

The sugar baby that was well on his way to capturing the arc reactor that powered Tony's heart was slumped over the toilet in the private dormitory Tony _generously_ paid for.

“This is the worst,” Peter moped, imitating a kicked kitten. He wore the act very well, in Tony's humble opinion.

“Everybody gets sick, kid. You're not that special.”

Peter made an odd choked noise. 

“But this is the first time I've been sick since– uh, in years,” Peter stumbled. 

“Well, then,” Tony retorted, “looks like you've got some catching up to do.”

“But we–”

“Nuh uh. If you think I'm gonna fuck you when you’re half-dead from the flu, then you've got another thing coming,” Tony said, because he wasn't a total fucking monster.

Peter did not appreciate the sentiment. If anything, he seemed even further put out at Tony's adamant refusal, collapsing back against the toilet seat with a sigh of regret. It was an image that mirrored much of Tony's partying playboy days – a comparison that made bile rise in his oesophagus, threatening to spill out. 

With that parallel fresh and burning in his mind, Tony set about retrieving a hand towel, wetting it with ice cold water, and gently placing it atop the sheen of sweat on Peter's forehead. Tony shucked his jacket, placing it down on the floor beside Peter – he didn't trust these college dorms – before sinking to his knees. A groan spilled from his lips at the contact; Iron Man had corroded away most of the bone density of his kneecap. 

“Don't worry, kid,” he murmured, noticing the whine that spilled through Pete's lips. “I'm staying.”

Here's the thing: Tony's morality and human decency stopped downloading in the womb at 12%, wherein it picked up a virus courtesy of his dear old dad. He wasn't the type to offer comfort, to be responsible for someone other than himself – _he_ was a handful all on his own. 

Except... for whatever pathetic reason, Tony couldn't find himself to detach from this situation. He had, like, strings or something tying him to one Mr. Parker. 

So, yes. Tony was staying. 

As expected, Peter didn't go down without a fight: “No, Mr. Stark, sir–” he coughed. “I don't want you to feel, uh, obligated to stay here. I can look after myself, and I, uh,” he dry heaved into the toilet, “I don't want you to have to see me like this.”

“Kid, I'm a drunk,” Tony interjected. “There's nothing you can do I haven't seen before.”

Peter's body protested to Tony's assertion, turning the kid's body an off-colour green, before he ducked his head back into the bowl and purged whatever remained of the contents of his stomach. Tony forced a hand to soothe the sweat-damp skin over Peter's back over his shirt, his grimace slowly facing the longer he performed aforementioned action. It was a surprisingly soothing thing to do to someone – tender and, strangely, intimate.

The slope of Peter's body read: _Challenge accepted._

Yeah, Tony's grimace redoubled its effort. He was in for a long night. 

Peter finished puking up all his internal organs sometime around 3am, but vetoed Tony's practical suggestion of relocating somewhere other than the bathroom that stank of vomit. 

Tony wasn't going to lie – it wasn't the most pleasant experience ever. Peter hadn't the strength to brush his teeth so his mouth was teeming with fossilised stomach acid, so acrid Tony could taste it. Tony was definitely going to be thinking about the current state of Peter's mouth the next time they exchanged saliva. 

And _yet_ – it was the most fun Tony'd had in a long time. A long, long time, at that.

* * *

While Tony was perfectly content not to request additional sex after he took care of his sick lover, Peter took it upon himself to offer compensation for Tony's admittedly selfless act. 

Now, Tony did argue with Peter. He didn't need any repayment – as far as he was concerned, even getting to hold Peter and be with him was reward enough. But then, well, Peter's skill of persuasion was a superpower on par with Iron Man. And that was saying something. A hell of a lot of somethings.

“When they call me a kiss-ass and brownnoser, they'll be right,” was the crux of Peter's proposition, eyes twinkling, mouth quirking in obvious enthusiasm. Tony conceded embarrassingly quickly. 

So. There they were. Tony, on his back, getting his ass eaten out all sloppy and wet – inexperienced, but so fucking delicious – and Peter, rimming him to hell and back. 

“Fuck, kid. You're so perfect. Such a good boy. You're doing so good for me, _ah!”_ – Tony hissed as the vibrations of Peter's low groan pulsate through Tony's entire being; a living entity in its own right – “You're making me feel so good.”

Peter's eyes flickered to his, and Tony was gone. Completely and utterly gone. 

Because, as per Finagle's law of dynamic negatives: _Anything that can go wrong, will – at the worst possible moment._

And it was at this precise point in time, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, here with Peter's tongue embedded deep in Tony's ass, that the great epiphany struck Tony down a bolt straight from Mjölnir.

See, their little arrangement operated on the premise:

sex + money = win-win

Under no circumstance was unrequited love meant to factor into this equation. Especially not on _Tony's_ part. Tony, with the ill-advised life choices. Tony, with the life-altering secret. Tony, with the world's most beloved alter-ego. 

And _Peter_. Sweet Peter. 

He should have foreseen this. Why the hell didn't he? Oh, that's right – because Tony was arrogant enough to assume that he was as impervious to Peter's charms the way he was to all his previous bed warmers'.

When he came then, Tony felt like a charged supernova: the optimum causality that heralded a stellar explosion that Tony swore he could feel evolving in his bloodstream. He blacked out shortly after, collapsing beneath his weight at the command of gravity. 

Tony shifted, minimally – his body weighed a ton – allowing for Peter to ease into his side, cradling against him like he was made for it. Peter's hand teased along the edge of Tony's now rumpled shirt, mindful of the come stains that marred the material. 

“You should probably take this off now,” Peter said lightly. “I think we're there now?”

Yes. Goddamnit it all to hell, yes, they were.

And it signalled a colossal fuck-up on Tony's part. 

Because now, Tony was struck with the inexplicable urge to remove his shirt, to show Peter the vast array of suits he had in his private lab, to give Peter his old arc reactor and let Iron Man's fate rest in the palm of Peter Parker's hand.

Jesus Christ. Tony was well and truly fucked. What the hell was he supposed to do next?

* * *

“You – you're ending this?”

_You're breaking up with me?_

It'd been a week since Peter made that innocuous comment, the one about _being there now,_ and Tony had fled like the room had suddenly burst into flames, shooting him a piss-poor excuse about work priorities yadda yadda. Ever since then, Tony had ghosted him, leaving him on read. _Fear of commitment_ , Gwen had posited after Peter hesitantly asked her for advice during a lecture on medicinal chemistry – he gave her the watered down version, of course; the fact that Peter was Tony Stark's sugar baby was on a strictly need-to-know basis. 

_Ex-_ sugar baby. 

Tony sniffed, body angled perpendicular to Peter's own. His eyes were hidden behind blocky sunglasses, so dark Peter's spider sight couldn't penetrate behind the visor to glimpse at Tony's irises.

“Insert obligatory ‘it's not you, it's me’ spiel,” said Tony, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, expelling restless energy. He dug his hands into his pockets, withdrawing his wallet. “Should be a few million on there to help you out.”

Tony tossed his card onto Peter's bed, Peter's mind unhelpfully replaying several NSFW memories associated with that bed and its glorious, masterful occupant. Tony's eyes were wild, terrified. 

“I don't understand,” Peter stuttered, hating that he was so unsure. 

Tony's expression tensed. “I have a lot on my plate right now,” he said, but it wasn't an explanation. Not really. Not one that mattered. “You understand.”

Peter forced himself to nod, even when he didn't understand, not at all. God, everyone warned him. Literally, everyone. Gwen, MJ, Ned. May probably would have too, if Peter had mustered the courage to confide in her about, well, _this_ – not that there was any point in doing so now. ‘This would only end in tears,’ they told him. 

Maybe it was hubris, or arrogance, but Peter really, truly, genuinely believed that he would be the exception to the rule.

(Yeah fucking right.)

This was how it ended: a handshake – rough palm connecting with soft skin. Tony's, “It's been a pleasure doing business with you,” a degree of finality concluding their anomalous relationship. 

And then, before Peter could so much as blink, the man stepped out of his dorm, and out of his life. 

Show's over, folks. 

Talk about anticlimactic.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! I am so sorry it's taken me a while to publish the ending, but here it is. I hope you guys enjoy! :)

Basically: for the past month, Tony was fucking miserable.

At the end of the day, he had no one to blame but himself. It was all his fault – everything. His fault for seducing the kid, his fault for smothering the kid in toys and trinkets, his fault for _loving_ the kid.

God. 

Not _kid–_

Peter.

Regret congealed in Tony's gut at the recollection of what he did to Peter – the sadness etching lines on the kid's smooth skin, the downward lick of his mouth, the melancholy bitterly lacing his words – solidifying into a mould Tony wore like Iron Man. 

Don't get him wrong – Tony definitely made the right call. No doubt about it. All Tony could offer him was heartbreak and misery, accompanied by the odd target on his back, whereas Peter deserved everything. A thousand times more than anything Tony could buy him. What a responsible, self-reflective analysis, Tony prided himself. Maturity never had been Tony's style. 

Huh. Would you look at that – maybe he was finally acting his age. Growing up.

If only Howard could see him now. The disappointment would be enough to send him back six feet under.

(Woah. That was heavy. Apologies.)

 _Any_ -way. With little else to do but reminisce on the multitude of ways he screwed up, Tony threw himself into work – both at S.I. and the, uh, _other_ job. Pepper was on his ass about every piece of paper that needed his signature, Nick Fury was on his ass about the latest tech he allegedly needed, the Avengers were on his ass about _pressing_ new developments on the superhero scene. 

All of which, coincidentally, culminated in Iron Man lending a hand to the Web-Head on a seemingly random day about Queens. 

Peter was from Queens.

 _Stop. It. Now. Stark_.

“How you doin', kid? Need a hand?” Tony asked. Apparently, he really needed to work on censoring his brain, if every question ended up sounding unintentionally flirtatious. Which was empathically not his intention. Like, at all. “You don't seem like your usual chirpy self.”

Actually, tell a lie: it _was_ intentional. Because, in Tony's gorgeously screwed-up mind, rebounding with the barely-legal spider-kid was the perfect solution to his problem. Go figure.

(Sarcasm was Tony's oldest and dearest friend. He probably needed to reign that in. 

Yeah, right.)

“I was dumped,” Spider-Man confided to a masked Tony, unaware of Iron Man's completely unrelated mild panic attack. “By someone I really, really liked.”

“Yeah,” Tony responded in Iron Man's emotionless voice. “I know the feeling.”

“How did you get over it?”

Iron Man shrugged in the armour, aiming for a more adult-worthy response than shameless charm. “I’m still figuring it out. Maybe we don't.”

Spider-Man nodded. Pensive. Tony imagined he was pensive. He didn't know why.

Because Peter always looked pensive. Deep in thought. Always thinking, any moment a Eureka moment. God, the kid's brain was a marvel, and–

Fuck. Tony seriously needed to just _get a grip right fucking now._

If Tony had possessed even a modicum of self-control, well. Discipline and restraint never made for a good story – and Tony was all about the big show. Grand spectacle of his life. Hollywood's crowning jewel. 

Would you look at that? Tony Stark, ladies and gentlemen: fool's good. Cheap, meaningless, shiny pyrite masquerading as something priceless. 

Tony's hourly self-reflective bout of self-loathing was dramatically cut short by the low-rent supervillain Captain America and co. deemed fit for Iron Man to tame. Well, Iron Man _and_ Spider-Man. Two for the price of one.

Despite Tony's frankly dreadful personal life, his superhero life was pretty fucking spectacular – a fact he had no qualms in showcasing to Spider-Man, hoping for an awed exclamation. He'd even settle for a cursory nod. 

(God. He missed Peter.)

Tony shunted all his problems to the side, mind sharp and poised to attack the supervillain wannabe; some guy called _The Vulture,_ who apparently had some beef with Spider-Man back when he was a little Spiderling. Tony didn't like to pry – tell a lie, Tony really enjoyed prying, but currently fighting this idiot and his stack of homemade alien weapons was taking up the vast majority of his brain power.

Never mind. He'd press the Spider-Kid for details later. 

Not that it particularly mattered – for all of Tony's intense focus and concentration, he was too slow on the draw to miss the Vulture's impressive gun firing at him.

Tony catapulted straight into the building, bringing down the foundations with him. Thank fuck it was derelict. Abandoned.

Oh – and Spider-Man was here too. 

_Super_. 

“Don't worry, I took down the Vulture,” Spider-Man narrated cheerfully. “There's this group, the Sinister Six or whatever, they've been trying to get me for a while. Sorry you got caught in the crossfire.”

“Great,” Iron Man replied, dry even within the metallic confinements of his suit. To F.R.I.D.A.Y. now: “Give me the laydown, will you, babydoll?”

“Uh, what–” Spider-Man asked, discombobulated.

“Not talking to you.”

 _“Multiple contusions detected. Your ribs have sustained severe bruising, and there is evidence of concussion. It is my recommendation that you allow your fellow superhero to monitor your condition closely.”_ FRI paused. _“Without your helmet.”_

Oh, fabulous. 

“What is it?” Spider-Man asked, apparently sensing Tony's reluctance.

“Kid, what I'm about to show you is the literal definition of _need-to-know_ , and once we're out of here I'm gonna need you to sign an NDA.”

He waited for Spider-Man's nod before removing his helmet, revealing his face to the Masked Menace.

Spider-Man jerked back.

Tony nodded at his face. “I know, I know, I'm handsome to look at and all, but I need you to check my head.” At least until back up was here, which, according to F.R.I.D.A.Y. would be in about ten minutes.

Whatever prompted Spider-Man's statuesque appearance quickly melted away, and the kid did as bid, checking Tony's pupillary response and feeling for the very painful lump on the back of his head. All while doing his best _not_ to ponder on big reveal of Iron Man's secret identity.

It was an... admirable effort, at the very least. 

F.R.I.D.A.Y. ordered Tony to update her on his current lucidity status, in order to prove his mental faculties were still intact – well, were they ever?

So, Tony talked. Spewed his autobiographical tale with appropriate pizzazz, gushed over his momentous screw-ups and generalised feelings of guilt as they racked up over the past decade, capsizing all into this very moment. 

Spider-Man listened attentively as Tony prattled on, sifting through the catalogue of his inefficiency. Subtlety never had been one of Tony's finer traits. It sure as hell wasn't about to make an appearance at this juncture.

“Come on,” he said, aware of just what an info-dump he's landed on the Spiderling. “I can't help but feel horribly exposed here. Let's even the playing field,” Tony joked. Mostly.

Spider-Man didn't take kindly to Tony's jest, noticeably flinching at the suggestion. 

Holding his hands in surrender, Tony clarified: “Only joking. Sorry, I make inappropriate jokes when I'm suffering from a concussion. It's sorta my thing.”

“Yeah, no,” Spider-Man stuttered, nothing at all like the whip-smart kid who dispensed quips like candy. “It's just. I.”

Realisation dawned on Tony. “I get it. I'm not exactly the guy you would expect to be Iron Man.” Partly the reason why he vehemently refused to reveal what he did in his spare time. Maybe, given time, Peter would have known. 

Yet Spider-Man shook his head – a vehement negative to Tony's pessimistic outlook. “No,” the kid said. “No, that's not it. I want you to know, I want you to.” Spider-Man clamped his jaw shut so tight Tony winced in sympathy. Ouch. Then, quiet, as though speaking solely to himself: _“I want to.”_

Without further ado, the kid took off his mask and–

* * *

Peter lifted the mask off his face. Cool air rushed to kiss his skin, a last-ditch attempt at hiding the truth from Iron Man – from Tony Stark – from _Peter's ex._ Steeling his nerves, he met Tony's gaze. Head-fucking-on.

Tony flinched violently at the reveal, body jerking.

“ _Kid_.” The sobriquet was loaded, stuffed full with too many meanings and unspoken truths that Peter struggled to decode.

Peter jerked a nod, aiming for casual. He probably missed the mark. “Hey, Mr. Stark.”

God. If you connect the dots – it all made sense.

Tony Stark was demonised as nothing more than a sex-craved war-profiteer, incapable of anything resembling human decency. Iron Man, on the other hand, was glorified as an exemplary hero, a testament to the very best of humanity. Back then, Peter had been trapped in the ignorant giant that dwelled in Plato's cave – had been blindsided by the amoral values of Tony Stark. 

(Who else could be Iron Man?)

The inverse to Peter's own conundrum. 

_What a pair they were_ , Peter mused. 

“You're–”

“Yeah.”

“And I'm–”

“Apparently.”

Tony exhaled loudly. “Wow.”

In spite of himself Peter smiled at their, uh, unique predicament. “Yeah.”

Awkwardness halted their conversation. It didn't take long for reinforcements to arrive, Tony only briefly mentioning that it might be a good idea to put their masks back on before the first responders hauled them out of there. 

Well. _Tony Stark's_ first responders. 

“FRI, be a good girl for me–” Tony started, and Peter definitely did not burn at praise that wasn't even directed at _him_ – “and fly us to the Tower.”

Peter overheard Tony's A.I. refuse to do so, citing his possible concussion, to which Tony overruled. In an instant, Peter found himself unceremoniously caught by Iron Man, who immediately dashed off to the Tower.

All in all: the grand reveal was a rather anticlimactic affair, not unlike their break-up. 

A medical doctor came by to check on Tony as soon as he retracted the Iron Man armour, leaving Peter on the roof of the Avengers Tower, extorting from Peter a half-hearted promise to _stay there, wait for me._

What could he say? Peter never broke a promise if he could help it.

It didn't take long for Tony to re-emerge, a wound on his forehead freshly stitched. 

“You can come in, you know, kid,” was his fond greeting, amused. Little did he know – nothing about this was amusing to Peter. “You don't need to stay on the roof all day.” He gestured inside.

Unfortunately, Peter's vocal chords had seized up from the second they touched down. All he could manage was a stiff nod, trailing after his ex-sugar daddy like a goddam golden retriever. 

God, this whole situation was giving him some pretty severe whiplash. 

In a desperate attempt to relieve his aching mind of the ironic situation he'd somehow found himself in, Peter roamed the cool interior design of the penthouse level. He'd heard of the Tower, of course; knew that Tony had funded its creation, possibly even _lived_ in it – and yet never even mentioned it to Peter. Never mind telling Peter about his gigantic double life – because Peter understood why Tony hadn't told him about Iron Man, and Peter prided himself on not being a hypocrite – Tony hadn't ever let Peter visit the Tower, the place where he aided the Avengers. Tony just... didn't want Peter to even know that part of him.

Peter thought dryly: _no wonder they hadn't made it._

Tony led Peter to his bedroom. “I figured this would be the best place to have this conversation,” was the only explanation Peter received. 

Perching on the end of Tony's surprisingly minimally-designed king-sized bed, Peter blinked up at the un-masked Iron Man. 

Tony didn't sit down.

“So.” Tony clapped his hands together, inexplicably awkward. He didn't meet Peter's gaze. “Questions. I presume you have them.”

Peter nodded, slow. “You would presume correct.” Too many questions, you could say. 

Splaying his hands, Tony gestured, awaiting Peter's verbal onslaught.

Because Peter's life was one big cosmic joke, the words he wanted to spout dried out before he could voice them. 

“How about if I go first?” Tony asked, strikingly brown eyes analysing Peter's face for an acquiescence Peter gave freely. “Does anyone else know who you are?”

Peter shook his head. Aunt May would never forgive him for keeping this secret, for what happened to Uncle Ben – and potentially _endangering_ her with this knowledge was a responsibility even Peter could not bear.

“Jesus, kid. You kept this to yourself,” murmured Tony, sounding pained. Peter frowned. “For years.”

“I, uh. Yeah.” Better than dragging anyone down with him – a sentiment which, by the looks of things, Tony could appreciate.

Tony looked distraught. “You should've come to me,” he whispered, the words sounding forcibly removed from his tongue.

"Uh, I _did_ come to you." Sometimes, he even came _on_ Tony. (Sorry. That was inappropriate. Bad Peter.)

If possible, Tony imploded further. His body jerked as though Peter had shot him. “I should never have taken advantage of you like that. I should have helped you, not _forced_ myself upon you.”

Wait, hold up. “You didn't take advantage of me, and you definitely did not force me. I was willing.” Lord, how he was so, so willing. 

“I took your virginity.”

“I know. I gave it to you.”

The air between them was palpable, charged, dangerous. The truth laid bare between them; all lies eradicated. Vulnerability poisoned Peter's tongue, making him itch to reveal more of the truth he desperately shoved down his oesophagus with every inhalation.

_Tony, I love–_

"Why did you,” blurted Peter, quickly amending his sentence before he babbled the one confession he wasn't ready to part with quite yet. “Why did you... leave me like that?”

Tony turned away; a non-verbal order to drop the current conversation.

But Peter _needed_ closure; needed to release the words trapped beneath his teeth before they choked and suffocated him: “You treated me like a wild animal, like I– I was something feral and rabid – you threw your money at me like it was a raw steak, and then you ran. Just like that.” He dropped his head. “ _Like I was nothing_.”

“That wasn't it,” Tony said quietly. “That wasn't why I– that wasn't it.”

Peter waited. Patience was a skill he lauded himself for refining. 

Heaving a sigh that could have engulfed the planet, Tony slumped down beside Peter. From this angle, Peter could feel the man's body heat touch his, feel the depression of his weight tilt the bed unfavourably in Tony's side. Peter could press his knee to Tony's with just the slightest movement. 

Yet, he resisted. 

Peter hardly recognised his voice: “What was it then?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Tony scrubbed a hand down his face. His refusal to answer was adamant – perhaps the truth Peter sought was embedded in Tony's silence.

* * *

Paralysis dominated Tony's vocal chords, his diaphragm, even his lungs. The supercomputer that powered his brain hit an error – or several fucking errors, like that stupid paperclip from Microsoft Office pleasantly lecturing on all the myriad of ways Tony unequivocally screwed up.

(Essentially: _a lot_.)

“Why'd you do it? Lie to me?” the kid revised: a Venus flytrap of a question. 

Tony balked at the reminder. 

“Why'd you lie?” Tony retorted childishly, not anticipating a straight answer.

As per usual: Peter lived to defy his expectations. 

“I can't put anyone in danger because of me, because of who I am. I can't.” Peter ducked his head, as though anticipating a barrage of further questions at his reluctance to divulge more information.

This, Tony understood. Tony had been there before, was still a little bit there now. Tony was the very last person to judge Peter on the consequences of guilt.

As such – Tony had absolutely no clue as to how to broach the subject without invoking additional discomfort. And Peter's comfort was his number one priority, so if that meant avoiding the tough questions, then that was what Tony would do.

Case in point: “Has Spider-Man got any scars?” he deflected, hoping to relieve some of the lingering tension.

Peter snorted. “Spider-Man doesn't scar.” His countenance turned contemplative, pink blooming on his cheeks as he recounted, “But I do have a scar on my foot from when I was eight and fell on a spiky bit of LEGO.”

Ouch. Tony winced in sympathy. 

“I got nothing on that,” he said with a smile. “Seriously, that puts awake open heart surgery into perspective. LEGO is infinitely more painful than shrapnel.”

Peter punched his arm, but his eyes were laughing. “You're such a jerk.” For those brief moments, their past melted away – until it was just them in the here and now.

But then Tony's muscles stiffened and Peter's eyes drooped, and the elephant in the room was completely and utterly unavoidable.

Peter couldn't even look at him.

(Tony's fault.)

All Tony wanted was for the kid to have the best out of life – and, yes, he was well aware that that was a common thing expressed by the older generation in times of death: _they had so much to live for_ and _the world is their oyster_ , and all that jazz. But that didn't make it any less true. Peter deserved every single thing Tony could give him, and none of the sediment Tony's life would corrupt him with. It was all about balance. Not too little Tony, not too much Tony. Just enough Tony Stark in his life.

God. He made himself sound like a commodity. Eh, whatever. 

The point still stood. Peter didn't need all of Tony's crazy – especially when he was bogged down in Spider-Man stuff. Adding Iron Man to the mix was a recipe for disaster.

No, no, no. What Peter deserved was someone well-adjusted; beautiful, just like him; always smiling, always happy. 

The _anti-_ Tony Stark. 

And if that notion made nausea rise in Tony's gut, well...

 _Possessive_ , his mind traitorously recalled. Of course, that wasn't the only thing it remembered-

As if having picked up the cues of his thought processes, Tony's brain-to-mouth filter malfunctioned: “Because I love you.”

Peter didn't move, at first, and Tony wondered whether he had actually spoken aloud, but then the kid looked at him: guarded and cautious, thinly-veiled hope clouding his beautiful baby browns.

“What did– did you–”

Tony cleared his throat. Every single cell in his body actively demanded him to refute the statement he just revealed

But he _couldn't_ because it was Peter Parker, and there was no one Tony trusted more than Peter Parker.

Not one soul.

“Why I didn’t tell you,” Tony said, and he looked at Peter as he said it, witnessing the kid's face melt with every syllable uttered. “I love you – that’s why.”

“I, uh,” Peter said, examining Tony's rarely-unguarded face before replying: “I love you too.”

Tony's heart felt like Obie had gone and snatched the arc reactor from his chest, sending him into impromptu cardiac arrest – but the good kind. The very, very best kind of heart-ache. 

Still, Tony did his best to maintain his well-perfected cavalier disposition. “Well, who can blame you? I am perfection personified.” Also, alliterative. 

Peter gasped in mock affront. “Just for that comment, I'mma web you to the bed and ride you.”

Tony was very much in favour of that course of action, but yet: “Or maybe Iron Man will finally get to have his way with you. Hm? Bend you over my knee and spank you until you come all over my suit.”

“Yeah,” Peter managed to spit out around a throaty moan. “Your version sounds way better.”

Tony laughed. 

Regardless of all the binary oppositions gunning for them – right v wrong, old v young, good v evil – Peter deserved a lot better than Tony Stark: a bombastic man with delusions of grandeur.

Which was why he hated himself - just a little bit, mind you – for the overwhelming gratitude he felt that Peter seemed to disagree with his verdict.

“You can't ever leave me again,” Peter murmured, lips tracing the sweat-kissed skin of Tony's forearm – an undertone of iron embedded within the syntax. “You have to promise me.”

Tony promised. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading this story, it honestly means so much to have your support, and I really, really, really hope you guys enjoyed it.
> 
> Just: thank you all! :)


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